


Hair

by punkcombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Hair Kink, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkcombeferre/pseuds/punkcombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac loves his hair. Well, what was not to love? His hair is amazing. He loves styling his hair. He loves people playing with his hair. He especially loves people tugging his hair just a bit too hard.</p><p>What he doesn't like is Combeferre touching his hair. At all.</p><p>Except that's a huge lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair

Courfeyrac loves his hair. Well, what was not to love? His hair is amazing. He loves styling his hair. He loves people playing with his hair. He _especially_ loves people tugging his hair just a bit too hard.

What he _doesn't_ like is Combeferre touching his hair. At all.

Except that's a huge lie because Combeferre has really nice hands. They're big and soft and skilled. Combeferre had always liked playing with Courfeyrac's hair, twisting the curls between his fingers, which was fine until Courfeyrac started fantasizing about his best friend fucking him into a mattress with his hands fisted in his hair.

Which was a Problem.

He wasn't sure exactly when the dreams started. For a while, the dreams were just focused around the idea of having his hair tugged during sex. Then, the hands in his hair became large and warm and familiar and without warning, he was dreaming about his best friend fucking him hard and desperate and Courfeyrac definitely didn't mind.

Which led to problem one: The realization that Combeferre was hot.

He'd always known, in an “I can appreciate beauty” way, that his best friend was attractive. Like, really attractive. In a strange, sweater-vest and glasses with permanently messy hair way. Really attractive. But Courfeyrac happened to be friends with a lot of attractive people and he was fine with it.

It was all fine until he started dreaming about his best friend in an entirely non-platonic way.

Because it wasn't just sex. It started off like that, but then images crept into his unconsciousness of soft pink lips against his and words whispered quietly in his ear between slow thrusts. What was primal and rough became gentle and loving.

The night that he dreamed of a sunny morning curled up around Combeferre, with gentle hands carding through his hair as they traded soft kisses, nestled under blankets, he knew he was fucked.

Because that was problem two, the big Problem: he was in love with his best friend.

 

 ----

 

Of course, this discovery took several weeks of freaking out, denial, ignoring Combeferre and then finding it impossible to do this, many tubs of ice cream and a night spent crying on Enjolras' couch.

That last one had not been at all helpful because he had poured his heart out to his blonde best friend and all Enjolras did was tell him to tell Combeferre how he feels.

Which he was not going to do. Ever. No way. He was not going to ruin years of friendship because his dick decided to get hard every time Combeferre's hands were in his hair. He was sick and wrong and _god, why did Combeferre have to smile like that and make his heart fucking flutter._

Enjolras shoved him out the door the next morning with an angry glare for keeping him awake and a parting “You just need to talk to 'Ferre about this.” which was _stupid_ and he was not going to listen to that, especially not from _Enjolras_ , who spent 90% of his time arguing with Grantaire and 99.9% of his time ignoring his feelings for said cynic. The .1% was the time Enjolras got drunk and spent three hours curled up between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, making a list of all the things he liked, and that therefore frustrated him, about Grantaire. It was a very long list.

 

\----

 

So, Courfeyrac would suck it up and he wasn't going to mope. He would appreciate the fact that he got to spend every day with the person he loves, which is a more than most people can ask for.

But the 'pretend you're not in love with your best friend act' was hard when Combeferre wouldn't leave his damn hair alone.

They had all gathered for a movie night and Courfeyrac was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back against Marius' sofa. Combeferre was on the couch behind him, his right leg brushing Courfeyrac's arm. Not that Courfeyrac's brain was focused on that point of contact as if it was burning him.

Courfeyrac was starting to doze off when he felt a soft touch on his scalp. Without thinking, he leaned back into it and his head rested on Combeferre's knee. Fingers started brushing through his curls and he sighed happily without thinking. The movement paused, and then fingers clenched tightly in his hair. Courfeyrac tried to stifle his gasp and something of a squeak came out. Jehan twisted round in Bahorel's lap to look curiously at him.

Courfeyrac knew his face was seconds away from flushing so he leapt to his feet, Combeferre's fingers tugging slightly in his hair as he pulled himself away. “Anyone want a drink?”

There were a few mumbles but he wasn't really paying attention. He all but sprinted for the kitchen and slammed the door behind him, clutching onto a counter. He glared down at the rather obvious bulge in his pants and tried to will it away by sheer force.

After a glass of cold water and several deep breaths, he had composed himself enough to leave Marius and Cosette's kitchen.

“Where's my drink?” Enjolras asked as he re-entered the living room. Neither he nor Grantaire seemed about to mention the fact that they were holding hands where they sat next to each other on the floor.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Get your own. Listen, guys, I'm going to head home.”

Almost everyone paid attention then. Courfeyrac was usually the one who was begging them all to stay and watch another film after they'd already watched three.

Combeferre got to his feet quickly, his eyes on Courfeyrac. “Are you okay?”

Courfeyrac was trying really _really_ hard not to stare at his arms where he had his sleeves rolled up. “Fine. Just tired.” Why was his voice so high pitched, oh _god_.

Combeferre smiled and Courfeyrac completely forgot there were other people in the room. He let out a small whimper. For some reason, Combeferre seemed to smile wider. “Night, Courf.”

A chorus of farewells followed and Courfeyrac came back to his senses, looking away from Combeferre and darting out of the apartment.

And if he got home and jerked off to the thought of sandy brown hair and hazel eyes behind glasses, well, it wouldn't be the first time.

 

\----

 

“No offence, Courf, but I really don't want to know about your sexual fantasies about Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac whined and flopped down on his couch, nearly dropping his phone on his face. “Please, Enj.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Fine. _Enjolras_. Just help me. What do I do?”

“I told you. Talk to him.”

“I can't talk to him! What if I ruin everything?”

“You and 'Ferre have never fought, ever.”

“But I'm in love with him. And he's so perfect. He's so funny and clever and he gets so excited about things he loves. And he's so kind and I don't know how I didn't realise it before but _god_ I want to make him smile everyday because his smile is so nice. But I don't know how to even start to explain this to him because he's _Combeferre_ and he's worth more than some cheesy pick up line or -”

Someone cleared their throat. Courfeyrac shrieked and really did drop his phone on his face this time.

Combeferre was standing in his doorway, the spare key Courfeyrac had given him in his hand. He wore an unreadable expression.

Courfeyrac felt a flush burning up his neck and quickly pressed the End Call button. “How much did you hear?”

Combeferre simply looked at him. “Enough.”

“Oh my god I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot, I never meant for you to find out, I swear, I understand if you never want to see me again, but you should really learn to knock next time, and I didn't mean what I said...only I really did, but _crap_ I didn't mean to say that out loud and I wish you would stop looking at me like that and I – what are you doing?”

Combeferre had crossed the room in several strides and sat in front of him on the edge of the coffee table. He took Courfeyrac's face in both hands and cradled it, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Courfeyrac was frozen, trying to remember how to breathe properly.

“You ramble when you're nervous, you know.” Combeferre was so close, Courfeyrac felt his breath wash over him. It smelt like coffee and mint and just _Combeferre_.

“I am nervous. I'm so sorry, I was going to keep it to myself, I didn't want to make things awkward -”

“Courf. Can I say something?”

Courfeyrac nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I love you.”

Courfeyrac blinked. And blinked again. Combeferre was still there, looking at him with a soft smile that he reserved for things he loved. Moths, his cat, flowers in the spring...and _Courfeyrac_. “You love me?”

Combeferre nodded and rubbed his thumb over Courfeyrac's cheek. “Yes, you idiot. I've been in love with you for _years.”_

Courfeyrac felt a grin splitting across his face. “You love me.”

“Yes, I just said that.”

Courfeyrac laughed giddily. “I love you. I've loved you for so long and I didn't even realize. I love you. I _love_ you.”

They were both grinning stupidly. Courfeyrac barely even though about it as he leant forwards and pressed his lips to Combeferre's. It was hardly even a kiss because they were both smiling too hard but it was soft and sweet and perfect and nothing he'd imagined had ever come close to this.

“God, we could have done this years ago.” Courfeyrac sighed as Combeferre rested their foreheads together.

Combeferre laughed. “We better start making up for lost time.”

Courfeyrac smiled widely and leaned forward, grazing his teeth on Combeferre's earlobe as he whispered “We should probably start now.”

Courfeyrac barely had time to appreciate the way Combeferre's breath hitched before he was tugged into a bruising kiss and Combeferre had pulled him to his feet, drawing away just enough to gasp “Bedroom. Now.”

Courfeyrac couldn't keep the grin off his face.

 

\---

 

As Courfeyrac curled up beside Combeferre that night, completely fucked out and blissfully happy, Combeferre's fingers carding through his hair, he let out a soft snort. “You know, I realized how I felt about you because I liked it when you played with my hair.”

Combeferre laughed quietly. “Yeah, I know. Why do you think I kept doing it?”

Courfeyrac pushed himself up on his elbow to look at him properly, gaping. “You didn't.”

Combeferre honest-to-god smirked. His hair was even messier than usual (thanks to Courfeyrac) and he was _a complete asshole who knew exactly how much he was ruining Courfeyrac's life._

Courfeyrac picked up the pillow and thwacked him with it.

 

\----

 

Courfeyrac loves his hair.

But Courfeyrac also loves Combeferre.

(He should be a poet.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
